


by the bayou

by malignantmuses



Category: Original Work
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, Gen, Mythology References, Southern Gothic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 10:00:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19248910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malignantmuses/pseuds/malignantmuses
Summary: he keeps a box in his bedside drawer of past lovers.





	by the bayou

**Author's Note:**

> a character profile of an oc loosely based off a character rami malek once played. mostly word vomit.

his physical manifestations vary, but today he is a brown boy.

his mixed blood is the product of ancient and tasteless fucking, of figures of mythology—Hades and Persephone, Samedi and Brigitte. he smells of young masculinity, of sour sweat and earth, of the meadow flowers he weaves into the tight black curls of his hair or tucks behind his ears. he has coarse hair, thick and textured, strong enough to break a comb. he keeps it cropped short, just long enough to cling to the flower stems he tucks into its locks.

he has only ever known America, it’s fattened food and Cajun French, but in the olive-tone melanin of his skin, in the length of his eyelashes, his blood remembers the country of his ancestors, an ocean away on the African plate. he spends his days sunbathing in New Orleans, slim and golden, face in the grass amongst the bugs and tiny creatures of the earth. he finds a frog, cradles her in his hands and calls her a pretty girl. he says _she just needs love_ as he strokes her smooth amphibian skin and lets her lay on his chest as he turns over onto his browned back. there are imprints of grass pressed into the soft fat of his lower belly and chest, criss-crossed over old scars, bullet wounds and belt-whips, Swiss Army nicks, cigarette burns, stretch marks, hickies that broke skin. evidence of his life on earth.

he is a loving creature. It's all he knows how to do. he has lived through his days of thoughtless butchery—of teeth and claws, of iron on his tongue—and he's grown out of it. now he keeps a box in his bedside drawer of past lovers: ribbons, buttons, cufflinks, rings, perhaps a lock of hair, a strip of cloth, and several earrings, none of which match. tokens of time lost together. pieces of them he’s stolen away and treasures with calloused fingers, chapped lips. hungry. he’s a tactile animal, navigating his way through the world through touch, tingles, traces.

it is this that keeps him young. he is movement, sweat slicked down a smooth torso, canted hips jutting out from a tapered waist. planes and angles constantly moving against each other, pieces of a puzzle sliding into and then out of place, joints locking and bones breaking, mending crookedly. his face somehow remains unscathed, careful and symmetrical, thick upper lip and wide-set, swollen eyes. his mamaw calls him handsome. others spit at him, call him disgusting, colored. he’s that too.

now, he is quiet, fading into the sonic landscape of the bayou, cicadas and running water, buzzing flies, singing birds. the frog he’d placed on his chest has escaped, crawling into the wet mud some yards away. he hasn't noticed. his eyes are closed, dead to the world.

flowers will grow from his carcass as he rots.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos would be lovely


End file.
